


Collapse

by assuwatar



Category: Ancient History RPF
Genre: Gen, Late Bronze Age collapse, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assuwatar/pseuds/assuwatar
Summary: The enemy is coming. Let it be known.





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Enkhelyawon holds his name in his hand.

 _For the ships_ , says the clay, _men from each village._

_Men from the mountains. Men of Enkhelyawon._

It will not be enough.

He knows it, and must watch from the hills as it unfolds.

Men will die, and the enemy

will keep coming.

He can do nothing.

Cover his purple tunic with a shepherd’s cloak,

at most, pretend to own a patch of grass

and nothing more. Run inland, and hide.

It will make no difference soon, anyway.

Tomorrow he will rule over nothing.

No more Pylos. No more palace and purple-dyers.

He will be nothing.

 _I am Enkhelyawon_ , whispers the clay.

He hurls it to the ground.

Let the enemy find it and laugh.

Once, he thought himself a Great King.

He wonders how different herding men will be

from herding lambs.

 

Ammurapi says his name out loud.

_Father, send help. They are already here._

_Let it be known. Thus speaks Ammurapi_ ,

he says, and the messenger runs.

Bare feet splash over bloodied tile, but

it is too late.

No reinforcements will come.

Outside, a baby wails, a mother screams.

He hangs his head between his knees.

It will be on a pike before nightfall,

and the flames will swallow Ugarit,

his home, and he will be nothing.

He could do nothing.

A helpless, aging king with all his troops

defending other thrones.

 _I am Ammurapi_ , whispers the wind.

It will carry his ashes to the mountains, the desert.

If nothing else, strangers will know what happened.

Listen. He mouths it. Listen.

Let it be known.

 

Šuppiluliuma sees his name by firelight.

 _He removed the enemy forces from Ḫattuša_ , say the stones.

_Šuppiluliuma, the Great King, the Hero, rebuilt the land._

He almost smiles at the lie.

His people almost believed it.

Now the carved wall is mottled gold then black,

gold then black, as the flames dance through

his burning city.

He tries to stand.

Pain rips through him. He faints.

When he wakes up there are new corpses,

men he knows, sprawled at his side.

He could do nothing.

His guts are in the dust.

His eyesight is growing blurry.

 _I am Šuppiluliuma_ , whispers the rock.

He wishes he was someone else,

not him, a king condemned to fight for nothing,

but a sailor, a nomad, a scribe in Waset.

A little boy eating figs in a courtyard,

somewhere where it is quiet.

 

The library is empty, dust is settling.

Outside, the sky is turning grey.

You flip through books, fingers split

from paper edges, squinting to take notes.

Soon you will have to go.

But soon. Not yet.

You are so close to deciphering the words.

You mutter as if they can hear you.

_Who are you? Who wrote you?_

_Tell me your secrets._

You pinch the bridge of your nose,

and sigh. It is late. In another room,

you think you hear someone whisper.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Enkhelyawon of Pylos, Ammurapi of Ugarit, and Šuppiluliuma of Ḫattuša were all kings who lost their cities to enemy attacks during the Late Bronze Age collapse. Each quote is taken from one of their texts.


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